


We, Ourselves, and Red Orchard, or: The Incomparable Commonwealth Conquest of Code Violet and The Railroad Death Bunnies

by melonkollie



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bad Jokes, Canon-Typical Violence, Everything turns out better than expected, Explicit Language, Explosions, Lies, M/M, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Sole Survivor meets Deacon before finding the Railroad, expired soda, general spoiler warnings apply, pretty pennies, tin cans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonkollie/pseuds/melonkollie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Name's Doe. John Doe," and Nate's never seen such a shitty liar lie so earnestly.</p><p>"Cute. Your actual name, please?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally inspired by a kinkmeme prompt, but well—incidentally, the same prompt inspired [NeverwinterThistle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle)'s [Freedom Trail](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5576841/chapters/12854160), which is jolly good stuff, golly gosh I tell you what, and you should definitely read it if you haven't already. She got her fic out first, fair and square, and I salute her for it.

The very first time Nate meets Deacon, he doesn't know that it's Deacon. Doesn't know it's anybody, really, beyond some no-name wastelander trying to scrape by, trying to survive like everyone else. He's just finished clearing out a warehouse full of raiders for a small settlement he'd wandered into on his way to Diamond City. They'd seen the musket slung across his back and straightaway asked if he was with the Minutemen, hope and fear laid plain in their voices. One of them, bless their heart, was verging on tears.

And yeah, Nate has to agree: it's pretty sad the way these things never seem to work out.  
  
Nate's not with the Minutemen.  
  
Preston Garvey, whose heart is too big, and whose smile was understanding if not a little strained when Nate turned down his call to arms, citing prior obligations, had sent him on his way with a crash course in wasteland survival, best wishes, and an open invitation to rejoin with the ragtag band of do-gooders once Nate's own personal affairs were in order.

Nate still feels pretty bastardly about it, but what's a guy supposed to do? He can't exactly go around saving everybody when he can barely take care of himself as is.  
  
But the guilt had rolled in like a radstorm even as he opened his mouth to tell them the truth and be on his way, so of course he had to go and spout some bullshit instead: Yes, he's with the Minutemen. He'd be glad to take care of those raiders for you. All he asks is that you pay the favor forward someday for somebody else in return, y'know, we've all got to pitch in, look out for each other—  
  
He really just wants to punch himself sometimes.  
  
The very grateful settlers have, naturally, no extra beds to spare, but there is a man perched up at the fire pit stirring a pot of what may or may not be food when Nate settles next to the tato patch to camp out for the night.  
  
The two of them coexist in silence as Nate catalogues his fresh collection of bruises, blisters, bumps, and scrapes... No bullet holes, thankfully. No wounds worth wasting a stimpak on.

Nate wonders how sore he'll be in the morning, if he manages any sleep at all.

"Ta-da," then says the man at the fire, startling Nate out of his sulk. "For the illustrious conquering hero. Three cheers, and all that." He gestures with a brimming bowl of mystery soup—and Nate must be staring for longer than appropriate because the man insists, "C'mon, you definitely need this."  
  
Nate's gut rumbles. He takes the bowl.

The open night air is just as chill, but the quiet at least feels welcome now.  
  
Nate nurses the warm broth slow, thoughtfully, breathing steam in as he drinks and tries to name ingredients. Molerat, maybe, and tatos. A definite surplus of stewed tatos. Nate's not sure yet how he feels about the strange little, twisted, hybrid plants, but it's not as though it genuinely matters anymore. Food is food is food.  
  
Eventually he slides down to curl against the wall, abandoning the empty bowl, and allows his eyelids to drift shut. One slow blink, and then one more—suddenly it's just before sunrise.  
  
Nobody's around to bid him farewell as he shoulders his pack and moves on.  
  
-  
  
He runs into Deacon again in the city.  
  
Literally, runs right into him.  
  
He's tired, hungry, deep in thought, and in such a hurry on his way out of Valentine's that he rounds a corner without a first glance, crashing into a guard so hard that the poor guy's sunglasses go flying.

"Shit, sorry," says Nate as they regain their balance. He pauses only long enough to dust off the glasses, returns them and makes a quick getaway before the guard decides to stop him for questions.  
  
He doesn't get a good look at the guy's face, but he does get a feeling in the back of his head like maybe he might've forgotten something.  
  
Oh well. He's got a detective to find.  
  
 -  
  
Nate gawks as the ghoul stabs a grifter to death, standing not ten feet inside the gates. A bright beam of light glints from the sidelines.

Nate spares a glance to confirm it's no threat—only someone's sunglasses—before refocusing on the scene before him. 

The mayor grins a ghastly grin as he strolls around the corpse, cleaning his knife on a scrap of flag. "Welcome," he says, "to Goodneighbor."

-  
  
Nate climbs the monument at Bunker Hill. 

Nothing more than a whim, really; it's something he never bothered to do way back in Boston's glory days, and who knows how much longer the tower will hold?

When he reaches the top, there's a man in a chair, frowning into a Grognak comic—feet propped in the open window, sniper rifle across his lap. He radiates discomfort so strongly Nate almost expects to hear his Geiger counter tick.

Nate abouts-face and excuses himself, rattling apologies over his shoulder.

-  
  
Nate fakes helping Travis Miles win a staged fight at the Dugout Inn, and spies a familiar fake guard at the bar, grinning right along with the bartender. He's gone by the time the dust settles.  
  
When Nate asks later, Vadim describes a "strange man, very _mysterious_ , always asks after the latest gossip. Says he is with security, but who is knowing for certain, ah? Normally they all wear masks."

-  
  
Nate and déjà vu become very well acquainted.  
  
-  
  
242-year-old man walks into a bar.

That's it. That's the joke.  
  
At a tiny two-top table in the corner lounges a person of no real interest: slicked-back black hair, prewar clothing. A bit worn down, but otherwise clean. Generally unremarkable on the whole, blends right in with everyone else. Except for maybe how he's pretending to read a faded prewar newspaper, wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit room.  
  
Except for maybe how Nate's _seen him before_.  
  
Enough, Nate thinks, is enough. He takes a deep breath, puts on his game face. Casual. Calm. Less soldier, more saunter. "Hi there," he says, "This seat taken?"

"Yup," drawls the guy, eyes glued to his paper. And if that's how he wants to play this, then fine.  
  
"You're lying."  
  
The man's head tilts, just a fraction, and Nate knows he's got his full attention. He slides into the opposite chair.  
  
"Hi there," Nate repeats. "How're you doing?"  
  
They're in a public venue, so overt violence is unlikely. Especially if this guy wants to maintain his low profile.  
  
Second worst-case is he tries to make a break for it, but Nate's pretty sure his own legs are longer. He's fairly certain he could catch the guy, maybe even hold him down to interrogate at gunpoint if it all came down to barest basics.

He'd prefer it _didn't_ come to that, but hey. Never hurt to be prepared.  
  
"So there's something I've been concerned about lately. Wondering if you could help me out. Figuring you'd be the one to know, after all." Nate pins him with a pointed stare. "How long have you been following me?"  
  
The stranger frowns, starts to squirm in his seat, takes his sweet time to respond—puts the paper down, adjusts his dumb glasses, projects an air of vague unease as he mumbles out, "A while." His hands are on the table, empty. No threat.  
  
"Uh-huh," Nate hums, polite as a peach, "Any particular reason why?"  
  
Chapped lips pulling into a grimace, the familiar stranger looks down at the floor. One sheepish hand combs the back of his head before falling to rest at his neck, covering his pulse points.

"It's just," a sigh. More fidgeting. Then, "You're so handsome!" he blurts finally, and of course he picks now to look back up, now that Nate's choking on his own spit.

"You're pretty much perfect in every way, and I...didn't know. When my next chance would be. I thought, maybe, if I could work up the courage..."  
  
Nate wonders dimly if he's being pranked.  
  
"God, wow," the guy goes on, "this isn't at all how I wanted this to go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. I really messed this up. I'll just—I'll leave you alone, I'll go—" and he's out of his chair and half clear of the table before Nate catches him by the wrist.  
  
"You're _lying_ ," Nate hisses, face burning despite himself.  
  
The bastard keeps his poker face for two whole seconds before it dissolves with a grin and a snort. "Yeah," he chuckles. "I really am—but you should see your face! Hoo boy, did I have you going, or what?"  
  
Nate moves to rub at his eyes with his free hand, then thinks better of it, sighing instead. Seriously: how is this his life? "Are you gonna sit and talk like a civilized person, or do I have to hold your hand until one of us gets bored and does something drastic?"

"Well," the man says, "when you put it that way," amiable enough as he backtracks away. Nate lets go and tastes victory when he sits down instead of bolting again.  
  
"Who are you?" Nate tries.  
  
"Name's Doe. John Doe," and Nate's never seen such a shitty liar lie so earnestly.  
  
"Cute. Your actual name, please?"  
  
"I'd compliment you on your research if I didn't know any better. That line usually works on anyone who's not prewar." Not-John leans forward, extends his right hand, adjusting his sunglasses with the left. His nails are clean and short, palms warm.  
  
"I'm Deacon," he says. "Nice to meet you."


	2. Chapter 2

There's a finite number of times in one day that a person can be thrown for a loop before they really break down and lose their composure. In Nate's defense, he's been through a lot. The stress was bound to catch up with him.  
  
That's what he'll tell himself, at any rate.  
  
"It's like this," Nate rambles, as the evening wears on, "I don't know you, I don't trust you, and the constantly running into you everywhere I turn is frankly starting to freak me out."  
  
"That is completely understandable."  
  
"Mostly since I have no idea why you're actually doing it. And even if you  _were_ to tell, how do I know it's the truth? I've had some time to think this out; you're not trying to kill me, or else I'd be dead. Or at the very least one of us would." Nate runs a restless hand through his hair. "I don't have anything worth stealing that anyone would have to plan this long for. So that means you're, what? Spying on me? Why?"  
  
"If I said 'no comment'..."  
  
"And I'm pretty sure you're going to keep doing it, even if I ask you to stop," says Nate, "or threaten you, bribe you, whatever. And then if you do go away, so what? Nothing's there to keep whoever you work for from just sending somebody else."  
  
"Hey now, who says I'm working for anyone? For all you know I could just be an extremely dedicated hobbyist."  
  
"Yeah, sure, maybe. If your hobby is making people question their sanity."  
  
Deacon studies Nate for a moment, inscrutable behind mirrored lenses. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I can promise I'm not out looking to screw you. I keep tabs on a whole bunch of people. It kind of actually is my thing. Most of them don't even notice me, not unless I want them to." He raises his hands, mock-surrender. 

Nate mirrors him, raising an eyebrow. "And?"

"Not that I wanted you to, necessarily." Deacon smirks at the reprimand. "But hey, these things happen. I'm over it. Something tells me you're kind of a wild card anyway."  
  
"Thanks? That's—comforting, I guess. If it's true." Nate's resting his face in his hands now, still careful to keep Deacon in sight. "But there's no way you just _happen_ to show up, every time I do, every place I go.No way is that a coincidence."  
  
"Fair enough. So I followed the action," says Deacon, leaning back in his seat. "Lots of fun, interesting things tend to go down wherever you're involved—have you noticed? You're getting to be quite the popular guy. Speaking of which, I'm reserving the right to tell all the cool kids from way back home that I knew you before you were famous. Since we're having this chat and all."  
  
"About that," says Nate, inwardly struggling, "I told you I've had time to think. You're not going to stop watching me?"  
  
They both know it isn't a question, but Deacon still plays along. "Hm," he says, "Not likely, no. At the very least not without a photo or three. Autographed, limited run. You know—one to keep, one to show, one to sell. Nothing personal, you understand."  
  
And okay, Nate's not a violent person. Doesn't like shooting people, doesn't like blood, joined the military once he was old enough only 'cause it was expected of him—and while one of the few things he _doesn't_ regret about that particular venture is learning his way around a weapon enough to survive the post-apocalypse, he isn't having a grand old time by any stretch of imagination.  
  
Maybe things _would_ be easier if he could just put a bullet in this guy and be done, but Nate can't bring himself to entertain that thought with any degree of conviction. Nevermind it not being too tactically clever. No, he hates himself, even now, but he genuinely can't come up with any better, brighter, schemes at this point.

 _Fuck it_ , thinks Nate, and out loud he says, "Why don't you just come with me?"  
  
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Right?

Deacon's head tips to the side, creases forming across his brow.

"Seriously, I'm completely fed up with this entire situation," Nate says. "You want front row tickets? Fine. Be my guest. But I'm sick of feeling like I'm being hunted."  
  
"You have...zero reason to trust me. You do realize that."  
  
"Of course I do!" Nate snaps, "And I don't. You haven't really  _done_ anything to me though, not that I'm aware of. Other than being unbearably creepy."  
  
"I'm loving these high standards of yours."  
  
"Fuck off," Nate says, then pauses, considering. "You're not with the Institute, are you?"  
  
This, of all things, earns him a laugh. Deacon answers in a low voice, "What if I am?"  
  
"You really should tell me if you are. If you're trying to...abduct me, whatever. I'd go willingly if that's the case. It'd save me a ton of hassle."  
  
"Then I sure do hate to disappoint, but no. I'm not with the Institute. Why the bizarre eagerness to get body-snatched?"  
  
"What, mister 'keeps tabs on everyone' doesn't already know?" Nate scoffs—though he's still more or less certain that the only ones privy to _that_ information are Nick, Piper, and Doctor Amari. Seems at least a few people know how to respect someone's privacy.

Deacon, in his corner, is quiet. Expectant.  
  
"They have something of mine," Nate allows, "and I'd very much like it back."  
  
"Willing to go pretty far for that, huh?"  
  
"You have no idea," says Nate. He deflates, realizing all at once exactly how exhausted he truly is. Maybe Deacon picks up on it too, deciding to take some pity on him; he tears a corner from his newspaper and scribbles something onto it. Strange how Nate never noticed the pencil, but Deacon must have produced it from somewhere.  
  
"Tell you what," says Deacon, folding the scrap twice, "You're heading out in the morning?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I've got a few things I still need to sort out. But if I haven't caught up by the time you're ready, come and get me at this address. No tricks. Might be nice, not running alone for a change." Deacon stands to take his leave, pressing the paper into Nate's palm and clapping him on the back in passing. Nate turns, sees him wave as he walks out the door.  
  
In the company of himself, Nate blinks, eyeballing the vacant seat. Somehow he's left with an eerie feeling, as if Deacon was never there in the first place. He unfolds the note in his hand—once, twice—

_You can't trust everyone._

—and lays his head down in the crook of one arm, suppressing the urge to scream.


	3. Chapter 3

Nate wakes up shortly after sunrise and enjoys half a moment of relative peace before remembering the smudged note in his pocket.  
  
God, he's an idiot.  
  
He shuffles about the small rented room, gathering his scant few things, scrubbing his face with some old bottled water and a (mostly) clean dishcloth.  
  
Everyone's first customer of the morning, Nate sells off his remaining salvage and preps for another string of days in the wastes. Setting aside what he'll need for resources, the latest cap count lands him roughly two thirds towards purchasing the near-mint power armor frame that's collecting dust in Arturo's back storage.

Rodriguez had been helpful enough to consent to Nate paying him off in installments, holding the money in his own locked safe while Nate chips away at the total. Possibly less altruism and more him knowing nobody else will offer to buy the thing anytime soon, but Nate's not questioning his good graces.

He still hasn't yet worked out where he'll find decent paneling, much less a functional helmet—the few sets he's seen raiders stomping around in have been slapdash, falling apart, unsuitable for his purposes. It's something to worry on when he can afford to, but first things first: a good base to build on.  
  
Nate still vividly recalls being picked up and torn open like a tin can.  
  
Back before the bombs fell, had someone presented him with the concept of a giant, mutated monster-lizard and dubbed the thing a "deathclaw," Nate likely would have laughed. Would've said at the very least, the name needed work. Too cheesy, he might have said, like something from a low budget horror flick.  
  
He sure isn't laughing now; it'd taken Preston and Sturges both to pry Nate from beneath the corpse and what was left of his scrapped power armor. He could only nod along when they told him, wide-eyed, pale, beyond shaken, because of _course_ it's a deathclaw. What the hell else would it be? 

The largest scars across Nate's belly are still a bright, alarming red, and he's lucky the damage is only cosmetic. If it hadn't been for that old T-45—may she rust in peace, amen—Nate would have been a dead man.

And if there are more deathclaws that lurk within the Glowing Sea, bigger and badder than the one that had nearly filleted him—whole nests of them, if the warnings are right, and that's not taking into account every other nasty thing hidden in the green haze—compared to that, the deadly radiation seems damn near inconsequential.  
  
Nate's nothing if not a survivor though. If he's going into that glowing green hellhole he's doing it alive and kicking, and coming out the exact same way. He won't allow for anything less.

-

Newly arrived caravan workers loiter in loose groups just outside the gates, smoking and swapping their tallest tales while the traders take inventory. If one of them happens to peel from the bunch a moment after Nate passes, trailing behind him at a distance just shy of what could be called polite...well, he wouldn't say he's completely surprised, but the approach is more direct than he's used to.  
  
They're nearly a full mile out before Nate slows his pace, testing. The volume of the footfalls grows.

Nate doesn't bother turning to look, but he does drawl, "Can I help you, sir?" in the best fuck-you deadpan he can manage.

"Please, just Deacon. Sir was my father's name."  
  
Nate is such an idiot.  
  
-  
  
Public library access should not be this difficult.  
  
"C'mon, I work here," Nate wheedles, because for lack of alternatives he's sunken to arguing with a machine. "Please? Let me in."  
  
_"Please provide your six-digit employee ID number."_  
  
"My ID number is, um..." Shit. Nate rests his forehead on the intercom. "123...45...6."  
  
"Wow," announces Deacon behind him, but any forthcoming quips die on his tongue when the door unlocks with an audible _click_.  
  
_"Welcome, Mr. Mayor. Please enjoy your visit."_  
  
Nate does his damnedest to look smug, even though he doubts he hides his own dumb shock well enough to pull it off. He rather thinks Deacon gets the message all the same.  
  
_"Mind the mess. We are currently undergoing maintenance."_  
  
"You lucky bastard. I should not be this impressed."  
  
"I'm sure you're just jealous you didn't think of it."  
  
"Got me there, Mr. Mayor." Deacon pulls the door shut as they enter.

Inside the library, they find...not much of anything, strangely enough. There are a few tension traps near the subway entrance, which they carefully avoid. Dead super mutants in various stages of decay litter the floor in several rooms, suggestive of ongoing conflict, but—beyond that there are no signs of immediate, pressing danger. Ancient security bots toddle non-threateningly through the corridors.  
  
Regardless, Nate feels uneasy. They keep weapons drawn as they navigate deeper, eyes peeled for worthwhile salvage or movement.

Deacon weaves through toppled shelves, bemoaning the absence of undestroyed books. Nate hums in abstract agreement, though he wouldn't call himself an avid reader. Nora, on the other hand—well. She had been. But the travesty is obvious.  
  
Two centuries and a decade since anyone properly attended this place, and only now does the library close for maintenance. All that information, just...lost. What a joke. Nate can only hope at least some books found a use beyond kindling and toilet paper.  
  
On the main floor they find several more mutant corpses strewn over the entryway of a large chamber, the far end of which is set with fortifications made of decayed books and furniture. "Hello?" Nate calls cautiously, "Anyone alive in there?"

Nothing but echoes. Then, silence.  
  
Discovering the slaughtered scavenging party is a far cry form being the biggest downer within recent memory, but it still earns a place on the list. Deacon reads terminal entries in the main room, allowing Nate a moment of introspection while he skims the rear storage room for anything noteworthy.  
  
It's been two weeks since they "officially" met, and Deacon has neither—so far, at least—stabbed him in his sleep, ditched him somewhere dangerous, sold him out, robbed him blind, nor otherwise betrayed the spirit of their tenuous, nebulous alliance in any way, shape, form, or fashion.

(There _is_ the whole "constantly lying" thing, but Nate figures he knew about that one upfront, so it's presumably not covered under warranty.)  
  
He still doesn't know what Deacon's angle is, and Deacon feeds Nate a different fish story every single time he asks. The latest one involved time travel, and reminded Nate of his own situation a little too closely for comfort. Nate's since given up on the direct approach.  
  
Unorthodoxity notwithstanding, if someone were to question him under duress, possibly pain of torture, he might admit to finding Deacon's companionship not entirely intolerable.  
  
If he were also very, very drunk, he might confess that it's been kind of...  
  
Nice.  
  
Fine, so the weirdo is growing on him. Nate resolves to not dwell too deeply; he's mostly just thankful that his ill-advised life choices haven't yet succeeded in getting him killed.  
  
His eyes catch on a holotape clutched in the hands of one of the dead humans. Reckoning it's either something important or somebody's last will and testament—and in either case it ought to be heard by someone who isn't a raider or a monster—he pries it away from the stiff fingers as delicately as possible, depositing it in his pack for later.  
  
It's right around then that everything goes to hell.  
  
Distant explosions pulsate through the building while the intercoms announce  _security breach_ , followed by a chorus of gunshots and lasers. Nate stumbles out of the closet and dives for a more defensible cover, spotting Deacon tucked away behind the next blockade.  
  
Turrets swivel to attention above them and they both duck their heads to avoid the return fire. Super mutants are flooding into the foyer and wow, are they screwed, or are they _screwed_?  
  
Nate slings his rifle over the sandbags and unloads into the first green thing he sees. One super mutant goes down screaming and Nate manages to injure at least one more before ducking back down to reload. Across from him, Deacon curses under his breath. He takes an extra second with his scope before firing; another mutant crashes, clutching its neck.  
  
Between the turrets, protectrons, Deacon and Nate, they pick off six more mutants and a hound. Suddenly, the room is clear, and Deacon is hauling Nate up by his sleeve. They dart across the main floor towards the exit, nothing left for them here anyway. The robots will take care of any stragglers.  
  
-  
  
"They were trying to save the library," Deacon tells him that evening, once they've holed up to rest in a duplex. "Poor dead bastards were stuck there for weeks just compiling all the data. Progress logs made it sound like they were just about done, only I'm guessing nobody made it out."  
  
Nate remembers the holotape he'd picked up, at once curious as to what it might contain. He fishes it out, loads it into his pip-boy. Shadows dance along the wall every way the screen tilts.  
  
He doesn't know what he'd been expecting in truth, but wow, it wasn't this. "Holy shit."

Deacon is watching with unconcealed interest, so Nate leans in where they can both see as he scrolls through the tape's contents. It's far from being the _entire_ collection, but—"I found it in the back," Nate explains. "Look, this is what they were working on. There are hundreds of thousands of files on here. If we can find a way to decompress this..."  
  
"Holy shit," echoes Deacon.  
  
-  
  
Deacon is the first one to broach the question of what exactly Nate plans to do with the archive.  
  
"You could make a pretty penny on that thing if you were to find the right buyer. It's practically invaluable. Priceless, really," he says in a manner so deliberately offhand it makes Nate wonder if he's trying at all.  
  
Nate knows he's not shy about needing caps, but still. "It's a public library. I'm not going to hold it for ransom money. That would be...I don't know. Gross. Anyway, someone's got to know a way to make copies."  
  
As an afterthought, Nate asks: "Have you ever even seen a penny? I mean, do you know what they are?"  
  
"Sure," says Deacon, "Old World money. Like copper caps."  
  
"Nah," Nate proclaims, sounding maybe too cheerful. Pennies fell out of popular use a while before his parents were born, and he himself has only seen a few in collections. Most of them were gathered up and melted for copper way back during the start of the wars, money worth less than material.

There's a chance Deacon might have come across one or two throughout the course of his life, but Nate doubts it.  
  
"They were medallions, first of all, about the size of your palm," Nate says, holding his own hand up to demonstrate, "and people wore them as status symbols. Earning a pretty penny meant letting folks know you were worth something."

Deacon boggles at Nate for a beat before breaking down, trembling with laughter. "Oh my god, I don't believe this. My own techniques, turned against me. _And_ I almost let you get away with it. This is an outrage, I'm calling security."

"Don't bother if it's just you in a different outfit."  
  
Deacon clutches make-believe pearls. "Mr. Mayor! Truly, you wound me."


	4. Chapter 4

Nate elects to leave the library archive in Doc Amari's capable hands.

A hard disk is sort of like a brain, right?  
  
(The good doctor is quick to inform him that no, it is not, in fact, quite that simple. But she seems keen enough once he tells her what the tape contains, not to mention all that impressive hardware she's got tucked away in her downstairs lab. If anyone else could be trusted with it, Nate doesn't know who they are.)

When Deacon had opted to wait outside, claiming the Memory Den gave him "the willies," Nate was skeptical, but not overly concerned. More often than not will Deacon disappear during pit-stops at more populated areas, though he always manages to find his way back before it becomes an issue. Nate knows better than to ask where he's gone.

He's surprised to find Deacon still outside the doorway. "Thought you would've wandered off by now," slips out before Nate can think better of it.  
  
"Already trying to get rid of me, huh? And here I thought we were bonding." Deacon peels away from the wall, stretching full-body theatrically. "It's like you think I have anywhere to be." 

"What I _think_ is that you're a champion liar," and Nate can't be bothered to roll his eyes, "who _undoubtedly_ has some sort of day job beyond playing 'follow the clueless scavver' all across the Commonwealth."  
  
"Keep fishing, buddy. Jobs are for squares. I'm going wherever the wind takes me," says Deacon, trotting into step. "Also, unrelated note: loan an old pal a few hundred caps? Pinky swear I'll pay you back."  
  
"How about I'm nice enough to splurge on an extra bed at the Rexford, and we'll call it even?"  
  
-  
  
"Dibs on top bunk."

Deacon tosses his pack to the far bed and doesn't break stride on his beeline to sequester himself in the adjoining restroom. Unperturbed, Nate settles on the bed near the entrance—bottom bunk, apparently, but whatever—upending his own bag atop the mattress and categorically sorting the contents.  
  
It's a mindless task, mechanical, self-comfort more than anything: taking stock of all he has and sussing where he stands. Nuts, bolts, ammunition, trinkets of indeterminate worth. There's an old army duffle full of reclaimed weapons that'll fetch a fair price once he can fix them. Nothing a little elbow grease won't take care of.  
  
Losing himself in routine is as easy as breathing.

In what feels like no time at all, he's disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled every single gun in the bag, drawing up a mental list of any quick upgrades or repairs he might make before selling them come morning. Dim halogen lighting leaks out into the pitch between the cracks of the boarded-up windows.

Though he hadn't been in any hurry to begin with, a quick glance at his Pip-Boy reveals over an hour has gone by. Correcting his posture, stiff shoulders rolling, Nate eyes the bathroom door warily.  
  
Sure is quiet in there. Huh.  
  
"Deacon?" he tries at first, stretching his legs, treading gingerly towards the closed doorway. "Hey," a little louder, with a tentative knock.

Still, no response.  
  
Weighing his options (and wondering why he cares, but shit, what if the guy's dying in there?) Nate calls Deacon's name one more time, stepping forward. "I'm opening the door, so ah...if you don't want me in there. Now would be a good time to say something."

He turns the handle cautiously. The room's not locked.

It isn't occupied either.  
  
Nate is baffled for a good three seconds, until he realizes one of several holes in the wall is big enough to squeeze a person through.

God.

He pushes the door firmly to and makes his way towards his own side of the room. He doesn't know why he's so frustrated.  
  
-  
  
Nate awakes in the dead of night to the sound of the bathroom door clacking shut. It's just loud enough to have been on purpose.  
  
He listens to quiet not-too-quiet footsteps, the deliberate rustle of fabric on mattress. Deacon sliding into bed, tossing, turning, flopping onto his back, sighing.  
  
"Seriously, you can stop whenever," Nate says, swallowing a yawn. "I've been awake since you came in."  
  
"Oh, good. I was hoping you were still up."  
  
"Deacon."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, okay. I just..." Deacon trails off. "Look, this whole 'traveling together' thing? I'm not used to it. Like, at all. Kinda weirds me out, to be honest."  
  
"Did you just wake me up tell me I make _you_ uncomfortable? Because—"  
  
" _No_ , that's my point, see? You've been a real champ with all of this. There are worse ways you could've handled things, but you didn't, and you haven't, and now here we are in this ritzy hotel room, having heart-to-heart confessionals. What I'm trying to say is," deep breath, "thanks."  
  
Nate blinks, at a loss for words in the darkness.

"I mean it," Deacon adds, perhaps mistaking the silence. "You gotta understand—that first night after you clocked me? I was this close," Nate imagines him gesturing, "to hoofing it to Crocker's for a face change. You never would have seen me again. Not in any way you'd recognize."  
  
"You'd really go that far?" Nate murmurs.  
  
"I absolutely would. I still might. Let's just say I'm not in a place where I can afford to draw the wrong kind of attention." Deacon pauses. "Know what though?"  
  
No.

Nate doesn't.  
  
"I've got a real good feeling about you."  
  
-  
  
In the morning, Deacon tries to convince Nate he's a synth.  
  
"No, you're not," says Nate.  
  
"I could be. You never know."  
  
"Fine, you could be. I wouldn't know. But I don't think you'd tell me if you were, I mean. Don't people frown upon that around here?" Nate ties his boot laces, double knot. The tags had been long ago rubbed blank by the time Nate salvaged them, leaving no indication of whether the leather was farm-raised or cloned in a lab, or who manufactured them. But, so what? They're warm. They fit.  
  
"Maybe I'm sharing this deep, painful secret as a token of my goodwill. _Or_ a grand overture of friendship." Deacon splays a hand through the air: _Can't you just see it now_? He says, "Maybe—"  
  
"Maybe I don't care if you're a synth, so this whole argument is pointless."  
  
"Aww," Deacon whines, digging into his pockets, leaving the front ones to hang inside-out like little white flags of surrender. "What if I go haywire and murder you though?"  
  
Nate realizes he's staring once Deacon has to twist to reach the back of his pants. "You have just as high a likelihood of that if you're human. _Most_ things that have tried to kill me were human. Statistically speaking, it's probably safer if you're pretty much anything else."  
  
Deacon is grinning again, of course. Nate's almost positive he's being laughed at. "I don't think that's how math works."  
  
"And I don't think you're a runaway synth," Nate sighs, "but if you are, I still don't care, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? Alright? I don't see how it would change anything. You make your own choices just like I make mine." He hasn't slept well. It's early. He's maybe a bit irritable.  
  
In lieu of an overt response, Deacon wordlessly flicks a small object at Nate. The thing spins up in a high, lazy arc—Nate snatches it out of the air.

It takes a moment to recognize what he's holding, squinting, bleary-eyed and confused: flat, round, dented and brown, copper with splotches of greenish blue. There's a good-sized hole drilled clean through the edge of it—big enough to string a thin chain or some leather through, if one happened to be so inclined.

Deacon's smile almost seems like a dare.  
  
-  
  
Two weeks run into three, three into four, without much incident barring the usual: raiders, radiation, and ruin, ad nauseum. Deacon remains enigmatic as ever.  
  
Nate's long given up on the pretense of having anything left to hide, which is as much a tactical choice as it is a concession. Keeping secrets from someone whose main pastime involves peering over Nate's shoulder all day turns out to be more trouble than it's worth.

Deacon, true to form, senses this weakness, and moves to exploit it almost immediately. They fall into a game of swapping personal stories, chipping away at long hours on the road.  
  
Nate tells Deacon all about the old world: plague, war, xenophobia, rebellion; the unspoken understanding that while civil service was't technically mandatory and no explicit draft was in effect, you still served the country in one way or another if you didn't want to struggle to put food on the table.  
  
Deacon tells Nate about the time he joined the Brotherhood of Steel in a fit of morbid curiosity, and was exiled after only three short days for sedition and disorderly conduct.  
  
"Irreconcilable differences," he calls it. "Lucky they didn't have me executed."  
  
Naturally, Nate doesn't believe him at all, though he agrees with the poor evaluation of the group. They can float in on their blimp and claim peace all they want, but Nate knows a military occupation when he sees it. It's one of the main reasons he never decided to knock on their door to begin with, hi-tech and shiny power armor be damned. 

He's not stupid enough to think they'd suit him up and send him on his merry way without expecting more comp than he's willing to give.  
  
-  
  
Five weeks in and they're eating hot crab cakes, freshly grilled in a bent pan propped over an open fire. Nate's own cooking is better than Deacon's—a point driven home aloud with a smirk as he dishes out seconds for both of them.  
  
Deacon scoffs, bluster and pretend indignity, and tells Nate about the time he infiltrated a mirelurk colony, hid among them and learned their language.  
  
"For surveillance purposes," he elaborates between mouthfuls, "It...didn't work out in the end."  
  
Nate tells Deacon about impossibly green grass, neat little picket fences, and the shiny new nuclear-powered car he and Nora had been lucky to afford.  
  
(Nora, whose absence he still notes daily. Who would understand that he's doing his best, and be glad that he survived—which means he's not allowed to be unhappy about it, not if he wants to do her justice. He's not going to talk about that part though. Not for a long time yet, if at all.)  
  
Deacon asks about subway tunnels, and whether he's ever been on a train.  
  
-  
  
Six weeks, and Nate's paying rent on the frame, though he still hasn't solved the plating issue, much less figured out how to rad-proof a suit with a missing lid and no rebreather. It's getting to be a real problem.  
  
Out on the outskirts of Boston proper, Deacon tells Nate about the time he wrote a bestselling wasteland romance novel—one which nobody will admit to owning, on account of it being so risqué.  
  
"Rumor has it a few copies even made it to the Institute..."  
  
"Oh come on," Nate laughs, "you're not even trying anymore."  
  
He tells Deacon about drive-in movie theaters, chocolate malt milkshakes, and ice-cold Nuka Cola.  
  
"We still have those," Deacon says, eyebrows knit, sounding for all the world as though he feels he's been cheated. "Nuka Cola? C'mon. I know you've seen them."  
  
Nate clicks his tongue in blatant disgust. "What you have is Nuka Cola that's 200 years outside the expiration date. Not the same thing at all."  
  
They spend the next several minutes debating the preservation values of various prewar food items, while a droning hum amplifies in the distance. A Brotherhood vertibird flies overhead, briefly bathing them in shadow.

They watch as it fades over the horizon. They watch as a missile erupts from the rubble, scoring a direct hit on the port side engine.

By the time the second and third missiles hit, sending the craft into an erratic spiral, Nate has taken off at a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to redo this entire chapter because i realized it was terrible halfway through. lmao writing is hard. life is hard
> 
> (have any of you ever tried drinking expired soda? super nasty, -3/10 would not recommend)
> 
> bless


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo boy howdy i done done it now

As luck would have it no other way, they arrive at the crash site just in time to spot a band of raiders stomping off, whooping and hollering, stolen laser rifles slung across their backs. One woman flaunts a missile launcher atop a charred Brotherhood bomber jacket; another sports an aviator helmet.  
  
At the head of the group, leading on point, is a full, working suit of T-60b, and Nate's so mad he could spit.  
  
He and Deacon and shadow the party—far too well equipped to engage outright—to a grotesquely decorated stronghold which reeks of dead flesh and burnt rubber.  
  
Nate takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it, trying not to gag at the smell.  
  
-  
  
"Listen," says Deacon, "I wouldn't say this is the _worst_ idea? But it's definitely up there. I'm thinking top three, minimum, and that's including last Tuesday when you tricked me into climbing that old office building full of crazy intern 'bots."  
  
Nate takes his usual token attempt at staring Deacon down, which, by all accounts, is harder than it ought to be. He can never tell for certain whether he's making eye contact or just admiring his own reflection. "You followed me in there all on your own. Nobody stopped you from waiting outside."  
  
"I followed you out of concern, and of the goodness of my heart. You're welcome, by the way. We almost died," and Deacon is goading him on purpose. Nate falls for it anyway.

"We did _not_. We jumped. It was fine," Nate rubs at the bridge of his nose, "Just because you're scared of heights—"  
  
They've settled themselves on the dusty wood floor behind the counter of a prewar taphouse, reclining against opposite cabinets. Strategic advance preparations for Operation Mayday ("Why does it need a codename?") ("Why not?") are going about as well as expected, considering objective one is simply to kill time until nightfall.  
  
("You could've at least picked something less ominous.")  
  
" _What I have_ is a healthy and sound respect for the force of gravity," Deacon says, "and its ability to smear me into goo on the pavement. That is a small but critical distinction, and _so_ not the point, just saying here, pally mine, little bit of friendly advice—"  
  
"It's okay to be scared," Nate confides, leaning in. "My therapist told me that."  
  
"I bet your fancy Old World therapist told you all sorts of wacky things, just so long as you paid her enough."  
  
Nate hums a soft, noncommittal sound, bumping Deacon's shin with the toe of his boot. Technically Nate's therapist had been on the government's payroll, and he's pretty sure she'd been alluding to his nonexistent fear of communism at the time, albeit with more subtlety than most would've bothered. Still sound advice, though.  
  
"Seriously," Nate says. "You know you're not obligated."  
  
"See, that only would be true if I hadn't put forth so much time and effort on your behalf already. Not to mention the mental distress—funny you should bring up your therapist," Deacon twirls an accusatory finger at Nate. "Have I mentioned the mental distress? Because there's a ton of it, let me tell you."  
  
"I know, most of it's mine."  
  
"Debatable." Deacon dodges when Nate tries to nudge him again, battered sneakers scuffing the floor, and Nate almost has time to worry if he's overstepped.  
  
Deacon takes advantage of this momentary lapse to kick him in the back of the knee.  
  
"Anyway, you're what folks in the business like to call an _investment_ , meaning I can't just let you walk in there all by your lonesome self and get murdered. If nothing else, my work would suffer."  
  
"Right, of course. Your work," Nate mutters. That was an opening if he ever heard one—and he's _enabling_ Deacon, that's what he's doing. He's nothing but a filthy enabler.

Deacon stands up to brush the dirt from his clothes, and hell. He's done nothing but have Nate's back time and time again for a solid month and a half.

That's worth a bit of enabling.  
  
"Your work," Nate says, "which would be..."  
  
"Cartography, obviously. Up-to-date maps of the Commonwealth, new and improved for the modern age—plus a few craters, less a few tollbooths, yada yada, that whole shebang." Deacon pauses for effect, pulling what on anyone else would be a very convincing frown. "I thought for sure my infallible sense of direction would've given me away by now. Haven't you wondered why it is I always know the best shortcuts? Or which places we ought to avoid?"  
  
"You are a man of many talents. Hard to keep facts straight sometimes."  
  
"No big deal or anything," says Deacon, reassuring, "it's only, like, my lifelong endeavor."  
  
Nate watches him tow his bag round the corner, idly speculating once again as to just what sort of person he's in with. Not that he worries on it much anymore—not with any conviction. Nate leans back, tilts his head to the side, catches a quick flash of pale skin. Deacon, on a roll, keeps talking.  
  
"Very kind of you, actually, escorting me all around the 'Wealth like this. And for free?" A lone low wolf-whistle carries over the sounds of buckles and cloth.  
  
Nate fiddles with the copper coin on brahmin hide around his neck. Granted, he'd still be surprised if Deacon didn't have ulterior motives. Everyone does; that's just the way the world works. It doesn't always have to be a bad thing.  
  
"Plus, you do a  _great_ job drawing enemy fire. Gives me plenty of time to survey landmarks, coordinate ah...coordinates. Got some nice sketches here, somewhere, if you're interested."  
  
"So, that list you mentioned," Nate says at the telltale final _zip_.  
  
Deacon swaggers in, popping his collar, godawful fake black wig and all. He's traded his jeans for well-worn leathers, dressed more for action than subterfuge. It doesn't particularly suit him—makes him look pretty stupid, truth told. But it also makes him look dangerous.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Of all the terrible ideas I've had. Whereabouts do you rank?"  
  
-  
  
The camp spans vertically across every level of what was once an above ground parking garage, interspersed liberally with ramshackle platforms and walls built of hammered-out car parts. It's a veritable fortress of junk.  
  
"So our main goal here is the helmet," Nate says. "Functioning respirator, sealing mechanism, visual interface, the works. I can cobble together any other parts out of scrap if I have to, but I need at least that much. There's no point to this otherwise."  
  
"Right, got it. Vital piece of equipment. Snag the scuba hat, cut and run, don't get shot. Easy as pie."  
  
"Not if you're the one cooking it."  
  
"Rude."  
  
Deacon and Nate creep through the darkness, pockets lined with stimpaks and ammo, the bulk of their gear left stashed at the bar. The first few floors of the car park offer little to no resistance save scattered patrol units, easily avoided. They almost get made towards the middle by one lone goon with either good luck or great hearing, who whirls around hissing, _"Who's that?"_ just as Deacon steps out to follow Nate up the next ramp.  
  
"Oh, thank god, it's you," Deacon says, like he's totally _not_ about to catch a bullet, "I am _so_ glad you found me, hey man, listen, I've been looking _everywhere_ for the toilet—"  
  
The raider lowers his weapon, then drops it, saved from having to hear the rest by Nate's combat knife plowing into his throat. Nate follows him down as he bleeds out, hand over half open mouth, and drags the corpse behind a car. He scrubs his palms clean on the legs of his pants.  
  
"You know," Deacon says, conversational, "you are scary efficient sometimes, and I respect the hell out of that."

Nate bumps him on the shoulder in passing.

-  
  
Most of the raiders appear to be sleeping, which is nice enough on its own—but it also means that the ones who are up and about have that many fewer distractions. Deacon and Nate tread softly, careful to avoid casting shadows in the lamplight as they weave between vehicles, patched curtains, junk walls, ears well attuned to the chitchat around them and listening for any sudden changes.  
  
They quicken their pace at the first hint of growling, and manage to cover a bit more ground before the growls escalate into howling barks. Once that happens, all bets are off—and why didn't Nate think there'd be dogs? They're booking it up the next dim slope with a half-starved hellhound hot on their heels when the first bullets ricochet against the concrete, far too close for comfort.  
  
Nate opens fire as he clears the ramp, Deacon shoots once, twice behind him, "D'you think it's true all dogs go to heaven?" and they dive towards the nearest available cover, which is, unfortunately, occupied.  
  
Deacon shouts a warning as Nate hits the floor, avoiding a spiked bat to the face. Three shots from Deacon down two assailants, while Nate bashes a third in the knees with the stock of his rifle. He rolls to his stomach and hits two more and tries to formulate a new plan.  
  
The main trouble, Nate thinks, with awful ideas, is they always seem so  _good_  at the time.

His eyes scan the far end of the lot as he scrambles to regain his footing, spying several cars with outer panels stripped, nuclear engines exposed. He raises his rifle and fires.  
  
For one terrifying split second, the whole room alights in a flash of white heat. Then it happens again. And again. And—okay, they're running for their lives, because Nate has set off an explosive chain reaction in a car park full of nuclear cars.  
  
On the plus side, hardly anyone is trying to shoot them anymore.  
  
"You're going to _kill us,_ " Deacon shouts over the echoing booms and crashes.  
  
" _They're_ going to kill us," Nate yells back, stray bullets flying past.  
  
" _Not if you do it first_ ," Deacon says, and alright, yeah, that is a fair point.  
  
They make it to the next floor just in time for the asshole with the missile launcher to make her grand reappearance, as if summoned by the sacred song of her people. Because that's exactly what this situation needed:  
  
More explosions.  
  
Nate manages one shot out of sheer blind stubbornness before Deacon yanks him back behind a wall, and they both stumble to the ground as a rocket impacts overhead. Nate isn't sure if he hit her or not. He really, really hopes he did.  
  
"I'll concede that you're technically correct," Deacon rasps, "in the sense that they are going to kill us."

Nate coughs and blinks debris from his eyes, trying to regain his bearings. Deacon is a warm weight heaving against him, voice all but lost in Nate's ringing ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was one of those problem chapters that never wanted to work out quite right and i struggled mightily to beat it into something resembling submission, haha. maybe it shows? i mean i hope not, but eh
> 
> feedback has been wonderful and lovely and i appreciate every last one of you


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought_you_died.jpg
> 
>  
> 
> On the last episode of 'We, Ourselves, and Red Orchard...':
> 
> _"I'll concede that you're technically correct," Deacon rasps, "in the sense that they are going to kill us."_

Bullets and lasers fly overhead, confusion and chaos and dense clouds of smoke wafting up from the levels below.  
  
Deacon's glasses hang crooked, riding low on his nose, and his fingers dig shakily into Nate's chest as he shifts and maneuvers to stand. He wobbles, unsteady—exhales through his mouth—and when he bends forward, for just a brief moment, there's just enough light to see his pupils are wide and his lashes are long and a thin sheen of sweat shines over his brow.  
  
Nate pulls him down by the collar of his shirt, and stabs him in the neck with a stimpak.  
  
"Son of a _bitch_ —"  
  
"They're not going to kill us."  
  
The second missile shatters the wall.  
  
-

"There is an unfortunate tendency of the human mind," said Doctor Amari, "to recall negative events more strongly than positive. We process the input through opposite hemispheres—"

Nate doesn't remember the last thing he said to Nora.  
  
He remembers the warmth of her hand on his face, threading his fingers through hers. Bending to murmur some comforting nonsense to a fussing baby Shaun in her arms.  
  
They'd climbed into the cryo pods and went to sleep shortly after for months, years, decades—a century and more—and he'd like to say, "Well, it all goes fuzzy after that," but it doesn't. He remembers.  
  
She'd said, "Is it over?" and "Are we okay?" and "No, wait. No. I've got him!" Worst of all, she'd said, " _I'm not giving you Shaun!_ " and then—  
  
-  
  
"Y'know, I could honestly do without, like, all of this," Deacon says, as they worm their way out of the wreckage.  
  
"Really?" Nate says, "I'm having fun," but his voice breaks down on the last few syllables and hitches into a weak, breathless cough.  
  
"You," Deacon grunts, "are a terrible liar. If we die here, I'm haunting your ghost."  
  
Nate wedges in to help dislodge the obstacle, wincing as heavy metal scrapes against steel. His chest is beginning to ache something fierce, but stimpaks work faster if the body keeps moving—so he smiles, grits his teeth, and ignores it. "No pressure, though, right?"  
  
Deacon says, "No pressure."  
  
Nate's next shot doesn't miss.  
  
-  
  
They find the T-60 on the roof of the complex, screaming obscenities, hurtling objects, commanding the few brave souls still in range to "Find them! Find the bastards, now! I want their fucking heads on a _spike_ ," which is good, all in all, because Nate wasn't certain what he was going to do if they'd had to fight their way back down for nothing.  
  
The stairwell is empty this high up, almighty clusterfuck still burning below. Nobody notices Deacon or Nate, slipping right in through the unlocked doorway, and nobody sees them at the end of the lot as they huddle behind the rusted shell of an early model pickup truck—one of the old ones that still ran on gas.  
  
( _Vintage_ , is what the thing might have been called, 210 years and some paint jobs ago. _Retro_ , perhaps, or even _a classic_. Nowadays though, it's all called _junk_ , and duct tape and desk fans are worth more than cars; Nate's ma would've called that _a laugh and a half_ , straight-faced and tired-eyed and bitter.)  
  
They listen in silence as the tantrum plays out, counting their bullets along with their bruises and reaffirming they have all their organs intact. Their pockets are lighter than when they came in.  
  
Deacon faces pointedly away from the ledge. "What's the plan, boss?" he says, deceptively smooth.  
  
"M'not your boss," Nate mumbles, for the eighth time that month.

"But if you're not the boss, and I'm not the boss..."

"Nobody's going to pay us," Nate says, before the question can even be posed.  
  
"What a scam."  
  
Absently, Nate traces the treads of a tire and rests his head against the truck bed, feeling the stim run hot through his veins. Hooded eyes drift to Deacon as the worst pain dulls, fading to a negligible ache. "Hey," Nate says softly, and offers his rifle—grateful when Deacon accepts without comment.  
  
"I'm going to do something stupid," Nate says, "and I really, really need you to cover me."

-  
  
Half a minute later, a shot cracks out, followed by outraged shrieking.  
  
Nate creeps, head low, knife drawn, along the perimeter, and the volley of gunfire distracts from his movements. He dispatches a raider at the back of a tent, and another two crouched beside an upturned trailer—and tries not to think of the smell of their blood, or of stains that'll never wash out of his sleeves.  
  
Back behind the pickup at the edge of the lot, Deacon malappropriates Shakespeare.  
  
"Alas, poor Yorick," two shots and a thud.  
  
"I knew him, Horatio," bang, clattering crash.  
  
"A fellow of infinite jest," Deacon hollers—and the armored raider's back stands just within reach, unguarded a few feet away.  
  
Nate lunges in a mad grab for the hatch, fumbling underneath for the emergency release, and he's there, but not quite, but so—damn it!—so close, and the suit whirls around, dragging him along with it.  
  
"Most excellent fancy," a bullet whizzes past; Nate's got a death grip on the wheel. He swings up again and hits paydirt this time, and the hiss of hydraulics is _triumph._

He hauls out the raider by the straps of their harness—they put up as much fight as could be expected of someone with a knife buried up to the hilt in their kidneys.  
  
The surrounding noise level grows markedly higher.  
  
Deacon, by contrast, is quiet.  
  
Laser fire smatters red hot on steel plating while Nate clambers into the suit. The HUD lights flare and the frame seals shut, fine motor control fully functional. Mechanical fingers slide clean into place around the stock of Nate's new AER9.  
  
Deacon drops with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, dead weight at the sound of Nate shouting, " _Get down_ ," and the raider he'd been grappling with flails, out of balance, then collapses with three smoking holes through their chest.  
  
Deacon pushes up then, frowning at Nate—no, behind—and he raises his rifle a moment too late—shots fired and he falters, curses, clutching his head, and his wig's flown off and—  
  
There's red. So much red.  
  
And Nate's in the cryo pod, kicking and screaming.  
  
-  
  
Before 111, there was Anchorage, Alaska: snow up to his chest and numb, frostnipped digits, breath fogging up the inside of his helmet, outer metal plates of his suit caked with ice.  
  
Before Anchorage were long nights spent at home with his ma, working double time in the family garage.  
  
They'd expanded their service to household appliances—Handies and Nannies and old toaster ovens—and anything that Ma didn't know how to fix, she'd open a book and learn quick as she went. Jacked up her prices on automobiles too, since no one but rich folks could drive anymore.  
  
Bundled head to toe against the chill night air, just a kid and his ma and a run-down garage, and they still didn't make enough to afford central heat, much less the electric bill that went along with it. She'd scrubbed her face hard when Corvega came out, eyes shining red-rimmed with exhausted relief.  
  
Nate's never been a fan of the cold.  
  
Scrounged clothing layers on top of his Vault suit; torn flannels, patched denim, mismatched leather guards reinforcing the knees. A lined winter jacket he's particularly fond of, button-snap pockets both inside and out. All of it in a perpetual state of unwash, but Nate makes do as best as he can with Abraxo and irradiated river sludge-water.  
  
And it's bullshit, Nate thinks, that he worked so hard. Had a family, a house, fitting clothes on his back, not one scrap secondhand or careworn. He worked and he fought, and where did it get him, but lied to by Vault-Tec and trapped in a pod, watching frozen and helpless while his best friend is killed and their 4-month-old son is snatched right from her arms.  
  
-  
  
Deacon stares mournfully at the tear in his wig, stained wet fingers wriggling up through the split.  
  
His whole head and neck are near coated in blood, seeping into the t-shirt beneath his black leathers while a short, shallow gash knits together on his scalp—grazed. He's sitting on the ground, one knee to his chest, a stimpak discarded in the gravel nearby.

They seem to be going through a lot of those, lately.  
  
"I thought we agreed to _not_ get shot," he complains as he hears Nate approach.

Nate laughs.  
  
-  
  
Nate's new AER9 is battered and broken, and covered in black bits of blood mixed with char; he'd used it as a bludgeoning tool once the e-cell ran dry. Crude, yes, absolutely. But effective.  
  
He might've got a little bit carried away.  
  
The optics inside should be salvageable at least, Nate thinks as they plod through the ruins back to town. He feels a weight in his limbs that's nothing to do with the armor, breathless and empty like he's just ran a marathon that somebody else signed him up for.  
  
"Being that I'm an invalid now," Deacon gestures to the rust-colored grime on his scalp, "I think I'll be calling in those sick days you owe me. Nice seaside vacation, get me out of the office. Do a bit of soul-searching while I work on my tan. _Convalesce,_ " the last word rolls fourth from his tongue with a flourish that calls to mind mixed drinks with umbrellas, rather than old folks in homes.

Nate's ears still haven't stopped ringing.

Deacon peers up towards the sky, contemplative, "I hear Hawaii is nice around this time of year," as he's scanning the rooftops for snipers.  
  
"I heard it sank into the ocean," Nate says, words echoing inside the helmet.  
  
"Did not."  
  
"Did."  
  
"Liar," says Deacon.  
  
"Takes one to know one."  
  
Should only be another half mile or so to Goodneighbor, and if he's lucky he can pawn off the bare frame to Daisy—or even next door at Kill or Be Killed, for whatever terrifying purposes KL-E-0 might put it to. No one in Diamond City will want it, or Arturo wouldn't have been so eager to part with his.  
  
Nate himself's got no use for the thing in its present state; the interior lining is scorched thin and torn, and something inside the left knee joint is bent, making running a mild irritation at best, and a life-threatening handicap at worst.

He can carry the outer plates strapped to his back if he manages to get any caps for the frame, and if not he'll just ditch it at the wall in Diamond City. Maybe let security have a little fun; be a shame if it ended up back in a raiders' nest. After that, he can work on his own suit.  
  
Two light raps on the side of the armor—Deacon says, "Come out of that tin can and roast me to my face."  
  
Downwind, they can still smell the smoke in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it turns out writing action!scenes gives me anxiety, which is kind of hilarious in a weenie hut junior sort of way (mercy, am i glad to be through with this chapter. i really do hate that it took so long, ha)
> 
> nate is loosely based on my first sole survivor, comfy little default name and all that. but i'm leaving his general appearance and whatnot up for imagination. in case anyone was, like. wondering.
> 
> you are all lovely, delightful people, as always


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